Perks of Being a Lord
by JustObviousAnswers
Summary: Fleur Delacour is just a normal, college Senior about to graduate and leap into the adult world fresh-faced and bright-eyed; but everything changes when she stumbles upon the wealthy and powerful Harry Potter. AU Universe !PowerfulHarry Mature-Content


**I. Libel**

I scowl with frustration at the person in the mirror. Damn, my un-tamable hair - it just won't behave, and damn Gabriella for being ill and subjecting me to this torment. I should be studying for my NEWTs next week, yet here I am trying to brush my defiant strands into submission.

_No more falling asleep on the couch after a shower_ \- I recite the afterthought mantra regretfully, as pain courses through my thick threads. Though, thinking back; the wine, ice-cream, and habitual Hallmark movie marathon really could be the crux to blame. Too many late nights, sitting at my desk; reading away boring chapter after chapter of various rune drawings and transfiguration texts led one to procrastinate mindlessly every once in a while. Which artfully led to my now, stiff back - and even stiffer hair.

A cough and moan from the living room draws my attention back to the work at hand. I roll my eyes in exasperation, and gaze at the pale, brunette-haired girl with blue eyes too big for her face staring back at me and finally give up. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair in a ponytail and hope that I look semi-presentable.

Gabrielle is my roommate, and sister - but today she's the sickness degrading our living room couch in a blanket fortress buried with stacks of used tissue paper, and bowls of chicken noodle soup. A nasty case of the flu had been going around campus the past week, and it had the unfortunate luck to strike the youngest Delacour at the most inconvenient time.

Today, Gabby had arranged an interview with some meg-industri-alist tycoon I've never heard of, for the student newspaper. So upon news of her sickness, I charitably volunteered; for the low price of a box of fire-whiskey chocolates - to replace her.

NEWT's start next week; and I have massive texts to cram, one final essay on Blast-End Skrewts, and I'm supposed to work at the shop in Diagon this afternoon, but no. Today, I apparate over to Carnary Wharf in downtown London to meet the enigmatic CEO of Potter Enterprises Holdings Inc. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our University, his time is extraordinarily precious - much more precious than mine - but he has granted Gabrielle an interview. A real coup, she tells me. Damn her extra-curricular activities.

Currently, she's huddled on the couch, under an enormous amount of blankets - sweating like a sauna.

"Fleur, je suis désolé _(i'm sorry)._ It took me nine months to get this interview. It will take another six to reschedule, and we'll both be graduated by then. I can't blow this off - vous plaît _(please)_," She begs me in a raspy, sore voice. Were both quarter-veela; which means, even ill, Gabrielle looks gorgeous. Her light brow hair matching my own; perfectly in place, and sharp-angled nose defining her model face, although red and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympathy.

"Of course I'll go Gabby" she sneers at the childish nickname, "You should go back to bed though, do you need some Nyquil or Tylenol?"

"Nyquil, _s'il vous plait_. Here are the questions" she leans forward to the coffee table, holding out a notepad "and a Quick-Quotes Quill, have it make some short-hand notes while you talk, I'll work through it later."

"I know nothing about him," I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my rising panic.

"The questions there will see you through. Go. The London apparition point is a fifteen-minute walk from his building, I don't want you to be late."

I glance at the grandfather clock, it's two spoons with pictures of us are in the same position; _home. _Below it the time shows; 8:30 am, I still have a half-hour. Rolling my eyes, I grab my materials; rubbing down the pencil-grey skirt absentmindedly.

"Alright, I'm going. Get back to bed - I made you some soup to heat up later." I glance at her fondly, _only for you ma petite soeur, would I do this for._

"I will. Good luck, and thanks - as usual, you're my lifesaver."

Gathering my satchel, I smile wryly at her, then head out the door - towards the apparition point for our campus. I cannot believe I have let her talk me into this. But then again, Gabby can talk anyone into anything.

She'll make an exceptional journalist. She's articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, beautiful - and was born in a political family with experience for silver-tongues.

It's early in London when I arrive which means the rain, as always, is drizzling lightly. My hair already begins to stick as I walk under the canopies of the tall buildings. The streets luckily are uncrowded - and it doesn't take long to spot the headquarters of Lord Potters global enterprise. It's a huge twenty-story office building, all curved glass, and steel, an architect's utilitarian fantasy, with Potter House written discreetly in steel over the glass front doors. The doorman nods as I walk into the enormous - and frankly intimidating - glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby.

Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde young woman smiles pleasantly at me. She's wearing the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. She looks immaculate.

My voice chokes from the glaring eyes that take in my outfit and figure with disgustingly obvious disappointment.

"I'm here to s-see Lord Potter. Fleur Delacour for Gabrielle Delacour."

"Excuse me one moment, Miss Delacour." She arches an eyebrow slightly as I stand self-consciously before her. I am beginning to wish I'd borrowed one of Gabby's formal blazers rather than wear my navy blue jacket. I somewhat made an effort and worn my one and only skirt, my sensible brown knee-length boots, and a blue sweater. For me, this is smart. I tuck one of the escaped tendrils of my wet hair behind my ear, as I pretend she doesn't intimidate me.

"Gabrielle is expected. Please sign-in here, Miss Delacour. You'll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twentieth floor." She smiles kindly at me, amused no doubt, as I sign in.

She hands me a security pass that artfully has VISITOR firmly stamped on the front. I can't help my smirk. Surely it's obvious that I'm just visiting. I don't fit in here at all.

_Nothing changes, _I inwardly sigh. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators past the two security men who are both far more smartly dressed than I am in their well-cut black suits.

The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open, and I'm in another large lobby - again all glass, steel, and white sandstone. I'm confronted by another desk of sandstone and another young blonde woman dressed impeccably in black and white rises to greet me.

"Miss Delacour, could you wait here, please?" She points to a seating area of white leather chairs.

Behind the leather chairs sits a spacious glass-walled meeting room with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty matching chairs around it. Beyond that, there is a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the London skyline that looks out through the city toward the Thames. It's a stunning vista, and I'm momentarily paralyzed by the view. _Wow._

I sit down, nervously, fishing out the questions from my satchel, and go through them, inwardly cursing Gabby for not providing me with a brief biography. I know nothing about this man I'm about to interview. He could be ninety or he could be thirty. The uncertainty is galling, and my nerves resurface, making me fidget. I've never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews, preferring the anonymity of a group discussion where I can sit inconspicuously at the back of the room. To be honest, I prefer my own company, reading a classic British novel, curled up in a chair in the campus library or the armchair at home. Not sitting twitching nervously in a colossal glass and stone edifice.

I roll my eyes at myself. _Get a grip. _Judging from the building, which is too clinical and modern, I guess Potter is in his forties: fit, tanned, and fair-haired to match the rest of the personnel.

Another elegant, flawlessly dressed blonde comes out of the large door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate blonds? It's like Stepford here. Taking a deep breath, I stand up. "Miss Delacour?" the latest blonde asks.

"Yes," I croak, and clear my throat. "Yes." There, that sounded more confident.

"Mr. Potter will see you in a moment. May I take your jacket?"

"Oh please." I struggle out of the fabric.

"Have you been offered any refreshment?"

"Um - no." Oh dear, is Blonde Number One in trouble?

Blonde Number Two frowns and eyes the young woman at the desk.

"Would you like tea, coffee, water?" she asks, turning her attention back to me.

"A glass of water. Thank you," I murmur.

"Olivia, please fetch Miss Delacour a glass of water." Her voice is stern. Olivia scoots up immediately and scurries to a door on the other side of the foyer.

"My apologies, Miss Delacour, Olivia is our new intern. Please be seated. Mr. Potter will be another five minutes."

Olivia returns with a glass of iced water.

"Here you go, Miss Delacour."

"Thank you."

Blonde Number Two marches over to the large desk, her heels clicking and echoing on the sandstone floor. She sits down, and they both continue their work.

Perhaps Mr. Potter insists on all his employees being blonde. I'm wondering idly if that's legal when the office door opens and a tall, elegantly dressed, attractive African-American man with short dreads exits.

I have definitely worn the wrong clothes.

He turns and says through the door. "Quidditch, this week, Potter."

I don't hear the reply. He turns, sees me, and smiles, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. Olivia has jumped up and called the elevator. She seems to excel at jumping from her seat. She's more nervous than me!

"Good afternoon ladies," the man says as he departs through the sliding door.

"Mr. Potter will see you now, Miss Delacour. Do go through,' Blonde Number Two says.

I stand rather shakily trying to suppress my nerves. Gathering up my satchel, I abandon my glass of water and make way to the partially open door. I glance suspiciously towards the handle a moment.

"You don't need to knock - just go in." She smiles kindly.

I push hard given its size, mis-judgingly and stumble through; tripping over my own feet, and fall headfirst into the office.

_Shit! - _me and my two left feet! I'm on hands and knees in the doorway to Mr. Potter's office, and suddenly gentle hands are around me helping to stand. I am so embarrassed, _damn my clumsiness_. I try to steel myself as I glance up. Holy fuck - he's so _young._

"Gabriella Delacour?" He extends a long-fingered hand to me once I'm upright. "I'm Harry Potter. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?" A quick wave of his wand returns my strewn items back to my hands and I'm suddenly mute as I take in the man before me.

So young - and attractive, very attractive. He's tall, dressed in a fine gray suit, white shirt, and black tie with unruly pitch-black hair and intense bright green eyes that regard me shrewdly. On his forehead, I notice a jagged scar, shaped almost symbolically like a lightning bolt. A memory pricks in the back of my mind, but I'm too stunned to remember it. It takes me a moment to find my voice.

"Um, actually- " I mutter. If this guy is over thirty then I'm a monkey's uncle. In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. _Must be some lingering magic._ I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate.

"Gabriella is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don't mind, Mr. Potter."

"And you are?" His voice is warm, possibly amused, but it's difficult to tell from his impassive expression. He looks mildly interested, but above all, polite.

"Fleur Delacour. Gabby is my sister, um.. we attend University together at Cambridge."

"I see," he says simply. I think I see the ghost of a smile in his expression, but I'm not sure. "Would you like to sit?" He waves me toward a white leather buttoned L-shaped couch.

His office is way too big for just one man. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there's a huge modern dark-wood desk that six people could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything is immaculate, and white - ceiling, floors, and walls except, on the Eastern wall upon a table rests a beautiful Pensieve. Hand engraved with dark-marble stone trimming that proudly displays rows of various mysterious symbols, each with breathtaking craftsmanship.

"A family relic.," says Potter when he catches my gaze.

"It's beautiful. I've never seen one before," I murmur, distracted both by him and the Pensieve. He cocks his head to one side and regards me intently.

"I couldn't agree more, Miss Delacour," he replies, his voice soft and for some inexplicable reason I feel my cheeks flushing.

Apart from the Pensieve, the rest of the office is cold, clean, and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the personality of the Adonis who sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite me. I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, and retrieve Gabby's questions from my satchel. Next, I pull out the Quick-Quotes Quill - and stare at it a moment as panic creeps into my throat. _I've forgotten the spell.._

"Vascentarius Quitali," he states, voice soft with understanding. I nod my thanks, repeating the spell out-loud; bringing life to the notepad. Which surprisingly helps boost my confidence as an inanimate object, swings into the air behind my head pointed towards the man before me threateningly. When I finally pluck the courage to look at him, he's watching me, one hand relaxed in his lap, the other cupping his chin and trailing his long index finger across his lips. I think he's trying to suppress a smile.

"S-Sorry," I stutter. "I'm not used to this."

"Take all the time you need, Miss Delacour," he says.

"Do you mind if I record your answers?"

"After you've taken so much trouble to set up the Quick-Quill - you ask me now?"

I flush. He's teasing me? I hope. I blink at him, unsure what to say, and I think he takes pity on me because he relents. "No, I don't mind."

"Did Gabby.. I mean, Gabriella, explain what the interview was for?"

"Yes. To appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year's graduation ceremony."

_Oh! _This is news to me, and I'm temporarily pre-occupied by the thought that someone not much older than me - okay, maybe six years or so, and okay, mega-successful, but still - is going to present me with my degree. I frown, dragging my wayward attention back to the task at hand.

"Good," I swallow nervously. "I have some questions, Mr. Potter." I smooth a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

"I thought you might," he says, deadpan. He's laughing at me now, I'm sure of it. My cheeks heat at the realization, and I sit up and square my shoulders in an attempt to look taller and more intimidating. Flicking my wand, in a flourish the Quick-Quill activates, and I try to look professional.

"You're very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?" I glance up at him. His smile is rueful, but he looks vaguely disappointed.

"Well, _The Prophet_ would tell you that because of my inheritance, and because of my.. _assistance_ in the fall of Voldemort; I have a vast network of unappreciated connections that gives me an advantage over other entrepreneurs. They would tell you that I fragrantly use my popularity to overwhelm potential business partners and take them by surprise, pilfering their assets and information. And they would tell you that at night, I use my cloak to sneak into warehouses, law offices, banks, and shops - stealing valuable information that I then use to my advantage."

I'm momentarily stunned at the bluntness of his hate towards the Wizarding Media Network, and I'm confused by some of the names he drops. There's a story that keeps pricking at my mind, coming and going yet I can't seem to remember it - between the smoldering irritable looks he gives the newspaper at the corner of his desk, and the telephone by it; I'm distracted with a heavy breathing mouth.

Minutely aware of my legs crossing I respond -"Hm, yes but I didn't ask _The Prophet_, I asked you" I snap a little too rudely, suddenly very nervous of his reaction - holding my breath in regret. But Potter only looks mildly amused as he turns back towards me and relief relinquishes my breath.

"I believe business is about people, Miss Delacour, and I'm very good at judging people. I know how they tick, what makes them flourish, what inspires them. I employ an exceptional team, and I reward them well." He pauses and fixes me with his glowing green eye'd stare. "My belief is that to achieve success in any scheme one has to master that scheme, know the inside and out, know every detail. I work hard, very hard to do that. I make decisions based on logic and facts. I have a natural gut instinct that can spot and nurture a good solid idea and good people. The bottom line is, it's always down to common sense and good people."

"Maybe you're just lucky." This isn't on Gabby's list - but he's so arrogant I'm compelled to take him down a peg. His eyes flare momentarily in surprise.

"I don't subscribe to luck or chance, Miss Delacour. I've seen first hand what happens when you place your trust in fate, she's a cold-hearted bitch. No instead, I work hard - and 'luck' seems to follow. Really, it's about having the right people on your team and directing their energies accordingly."

"You sound like a control freak." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

"Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Delacour," he says without a trace of humor in his smile. I look at him, and he holds my gaze steadily, impassive. My heartbeat quickens, and my face flushes again.

Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me? His overwhelming good looks maybe? The way his green eyes blaze at me? The way he strokes his index finger against his lower lip? I wish he'd stop doing that.

"Besides, power is acquired by assuring yourself in your secret reveries that you were born to control things," he continues, his voice soft. Somehow, I don't doubt his words - the magical tension reverberating the air between us tells me the man across from me is not to be taken lightly.

"Do you feel _powerful_?"

He pauses, taken aback by my words "I defeated the man who was regarded as the most _powerful_ dark wizard of all time. I learned from arguably the most _powerfu_l warlock since Merlin himself. I single-handily won the Tri-Wizard Tournament while under-attack from dark wizards, at the age of _fourteen_. I killed a thousand-year-old basilisk at twelve.. do I need to continue?"

My mouth drops open, I'm staggered by the information that's suddenly connecting - the slight hints as to the person in front of me's identity.

"You're Harry Potter.." I realize how dense that sounds, but I can't help my mouth.

"Yes" he answers amused, and suddenly a bloodlust urge to strangle my sister rises unrelenting. Gabby sent me to interview _the _Harry-fucking-Potter, without even mentioning a word.

Of course, I should have realized sooner given the charisma, and assuredness surrounding the most known wizard in the whole world - and his recognizable name. But to be fair when you've been studying non-stop for around seventy-two hours with little to no sleep.. you tend to forget things.

"I apologize.. my Lord, my sister and I grew up in France eight years ago. The war, fortunately, had yet to reach outside of The Isles by the time You-Know-Who was defeated. And our country had received little word of what was happening due to the media blackout. It wasn't till the British Ministry reopened we heard even a whisper of.. well anything."

He gave a melt-your-cauldron smirk, and I couldn't help licking my dry lips - "Yes, more than once have I mentioned to the Wizengamot that the stories W.W.M. flourish need to be properly fact-checked before being mass distributed across the world. But unfortunately, they seem to underestimate the power false information holds over the populace."

I tilt my head in confusion - "I don't understand.. what was false about their report?"

He sighs tiredly, and I feel myself lean forward hungry to hear the truth behind the most known story of all time.

"Well for starters they left out the significant death toll during the Battle of Hogwarts because it didn't fit with their model of a happy ending. Frequently, they have disregarded any notion that other's were involved with planning and executing Voldemort's takeover in our Ministry. And; time and time again, they have left out crucial detail on exactly how Voldemort was able to bypass security on some of the most well-fortified buildings in the world; like Hogwarts, and Azkaban for example - claiming this false naivety that Voldemort was just all-powerful."

I nod my head in understanding, though I cannot begin to fathom what he means about most of it. "But in the end, most of it is true, right? I mean the part about you battling.. him, and.. winning then his forces surrendered and.." my voice trails off as he shakes his head.

"The real war was _after_ Voldemort's defeat when we had to battle the bigotry in the Ministry." He stands slowly, strolling to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rainy city as he talks. My eyes trailing over his backside, and down his form-fitting suit greedily. "You see, one man - no matter how 'powerful' in magic can only do so much against an institution; especially one as mighty as the British Ministry for Magic."

"Even when Grindewald was at his most powerful; he barely penetrated a few of the key-strongholds in our government - and he was regarded to be just as strong as Voldemort and Dumbledore; though not as knowledgeable. So one must ask themselves, why the difference in outcome? Why was Grindewald a short revolution; and Voldemort a _War_? See, what Grindlewald lacked was a certain instinctual promotion of self-preservation. His ideas had merit and if debated publically most Witches and Wizards would agree, but their end goal attraction was weak - Voldemort's.. was not. Voldemort did so much more damage, not because he himself was some next _Merlin_ but because he wielded an immensely useful and extremely powerful tool at his disposal: fear."

"Fear is an overwhelmingly disturbing force of the human mind, fear has the power to sway, distort and rupture the conventions of the human psyche. The mind, body, and magic succumb to its ghoulish atrocities as we find ourselves piecing together a distressing puzzle of overwhelming emotion. Yet this very same fear can unite the scattered to become an entity of impenetrable fortitude while enabling us to understand our own personalities."

"Many in the Ministry latched onto his fear and fed from it - changing ideals and a basic understanding of human nature to act on self-preservation. Decency was replaced with suspicion, love with hate and our society fell apart." He turned back toward me, eyes a sharp green contrasted brightly by the grey sky behind him. "When the War ended we had to assuage these fears, and from the darkness, it was proposed that I would help guide us back toward the light. Many thought that if people could believe in heroes and folk tales then we could be united once again. If people could believe in.. hope.

He paused, hands resting on the back of his gabled chair.

"Of course, the bigotry was still there - still to this day rests in the heart of our culture; for good or bad. But to fight bigotry, that fear of the unknown - you must make it known, make it common. That's what we were fighting all along Fleur; the _Unknown_."

I nod slowly; "And that's why you began Potter Enterprises? Implementing highly criticized muggle technology, with magical adaptations so that our community could begin to understand Muggle culture, selling to the public at a small fee."

He smiles widely - "Well done, yes that for a time was our goal; and I'd say it worked rather well - most wizards today do not fear muggles as we once have."

Then he sighs tiredly; "But our laws have not changed, nor will they anytime soon.. as a wise man once said: 'A house- "

"Is not built in a day, but rather one brick at a time" I finish rather smugly.

We pause, he seems amused but his eyes are glowing - digging into my soul, and I'm helpless against them. Just as he's about to say something there's a knock at the door and Blonde Number Two enters.

"Mr. Potter, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes."

"We're not finished here, Daphne. Please cancel my next meeting."

Daphne hesitates, gaping at him. She appears lost. He turns his head slowly to face her and raises his eyebrows.

She flushes bright pink. _Oh good, it's not just me._

"Very well, Mr. Potter." She mutters, then exits. He frowns and turns his attention back to me.

"Where were we, Miss Delacour?"

_Oh, we're back to Miss Delacour now?_

"Please don't let me keep you from anything."

He has the vain to look sheepish, "Your actually saving me from a rather boring conference call with the Wizengamot.." he explains with an air of contempt.

"Ah, Lord Potter of the Ancient and Noble House, avoiding his responsibilities like a normal healthy adult; what a shame" I tease, and suddenly feel extremely childish.

He nods with a smile but doesn't comment and shifts forward, not into his chair as I expected but behind mine. It sets my nerves on edge in a not particularly bad way, and as I lose vision of him behind me; my skin suddenly on fire.

"What about you Miss Delacour?" He breathes out commandingly.

"What about me?" I snap, but the venom is lacking in my tone.

"I want to know more about you, it's only fair" he alights the growing unease in my stomach.

"There's not much to know.," I say, looking down at my skirt.

He finishes the stalk around my chair and returns to the front; regarding me disapprovingly. "I highly doubt that."

He pauses waiting for me to look back up at him, before continuing; "What are your plans after you graduate?"

I shrug, thrown by his interest. _Come to London with Gabby, find a place, find a job. _I haven't really thought beyond my finals.

"I haven't made plan's Mr. Potter. I just need to get through my final exams."

Which I should be studying for now rather than sitting in your palatial, swanky, sterile office, feeling uncomfortable under your penetrating gaze.

"We run an excellent internship program here," he says quietly. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Is he offering me a job?

"Oh. I'll bear that in mind," I murmur, completely confounded. "Though I'm not sure I'd fit in here." _Oh no. _I'm musing out loud again.

"Why do you say that?" He cocks his head to one side, intrigued, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" _I'm uncoordinated, scruffy, and not blonde._

"Not to me," he murmurs. His gaze is intense, all humor gone, and strange muscles deep in my belly clench suddenly. I tear my eyes away from his scrutiny and stare blindly down at my knotted fingers. _What's going on?_

I have to go - now. I lean forward to retrieve my Quick-Quill.

"Would you like me to show you around?" he asks.

"I'm sure you're far too busy, Mr. Potter, and I do have to get back.."

"You're apparating back to Cambridge?" He sounds surprised, anxious even - and I'm lost. He glances out the window; it's begun to downpour. "Well, you'd better be careful." His tone stern, authoritative. Why should he care? "Did you get everything you need?" he adds in a hurry.

"Yes sir," I reply, packing the recorder into my satchel. His eyes narrow, speculatively.

"Thank you for the interview, Mr. Potter."

"The pleasure's been all mine," he says, polite as ever.

As I rise, he stands and holds out his hand.

"Until we meet again, Miss Delacour." And it sounds like a challenge, or a threat, I'm not sure which. I frown. When will we ever meet again? I shake his hand once more, astounded that the odd current between us is still there. It must be my nerves.

"Mr. Potter." I nod at him. Moving with lithe athletic grace to the door, he opens it wide.

"Just ensuring you make it through the door, Miss Delacour." He gives me a small smile.

Obviously, he's referring to me earlier less-than-elegant entry into his office. I flush.

"That's very considerate, Mr. Potter," I snap, and his smile widens. _I'm glad you find me entertaining, _I glower inwardly, walking into the foyer. I'm surprised when he follows me out. Olivia and Daphne look up, equally surprised.

"Did you have a coat?" Potter asks.

"Yes." Olivia leaps up and retrieves my jacket, which Potter takes from her before she can hand it to me. He holds it up and, feeling ridiculously self-conscious, I shrug it on.

Potter places his hands for a moment on my shoulders. I gasp at the contact. If he notices my reaction, he gives nothing away. His long index finger presses the button summoning the elevator, and we stand waiting - awkwardly on my part, coolly self-possessed on his.

The doors open, and I hurry in desperate to escape. _I really need to get out of here. _When I turn to look at him, he's leaning against the doorway beside the elevator with on hand on the wall. He really is very, very good-looking. It's distracting. His burning green eyes gaze at me.

"Fleur," he says as a farewell.

"Harry," I reply. And mercifully, the doors close."

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